


In Sickness and In Health

by Flatfootmonster



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Caring, Coffee Shops, First Dates, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 21:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15009854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flatfootmonster/pseuds/Flatfootmonster
Summary: “Can I come in?”I mean, I can't say no—and the only reason I want to say that is because I'm a mess. He doesn't seem to care about that though. “OK.” But the nerves in my voice are obvious.He hesitates, raising an eyebrow at me. “I don't bite.” And now I'm thinking about his mouth, which was really uncalled for because it's a really nice mouth and I think that I've probably spent some time—too much time—before today thinking about his mouth.And I open my mouth to tell him I know that he doesn't bite but there's a pathetic mewl that escapes instead. I clear my throat to try and cover up the lack of control I have over my vocal chords but, by the way he drops his eyes, I can tell he knows where my mind has been.“I know.” I say a little too hotly, flustered by how transparent I seem to be to him.“Sure?”I shouldn't have rolled my eyes but I did. What am I doing? And he's laughing again, I try to scowl but there's that numbness spreading through my brain. “I'm sure.”





	In Sickness and In Health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alt_er_even](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alt_er_even/gifts).



> This fic is a birthday present for the wonderful [KT, AKA Alt_Er_Even](https://www.instagram.com/alt_er_even/)
> 
> Inspired by these beautiful coffee shop AU comics by [Elli_Skam](https://www.instagram.com/elli_skam/)
> 
> I hope you enjoy love <3
> 
> Becs

This was all typical really—this cluster-fuck I’d made of things.

I’d been tiptoeing around the coffee shop for _weeks,_ and simply because I was clueless about what to do.

Clueless: also fucking typical.

But what did you do when someone thought you were pretty? Say thanks? This was all kinds of new to me, especially because he’s attractive— _ridiculously_ attractive. And I’d never admit it but it _is_ a little intimidating. What do you do when a hot guy calls _you_ —an average looking guy—pretty? And he didn’t even say it, he _wrote it_ on my cup. Is that… romantic? I don’t even know.

But that’s beside the point now, I’ve fucked it all up and it wasn’t even intentional for once.

That one time he caught me looking through the window, I thought I had to do it then—or I never would. I was sick of being tongue tied—I still am. And so, when I’d finished my coffee, I wrote on the cup: _‘I like you’_. That was it. I wasn’t even sure if he was going to read it, but I saw him watch me write it; peering over the counter in the curious way he does, like I’m doing something completely amusing that I’m also entirely unaware of. Then I picked up my things and scrambled for the door, almost sending someone’s drink flying over their laptop.

A painfully long week passed before I even considered going near the place again. What if the first cup had been meant for someone else and I wasn’t pretty at all? Or, what if it was a joke? But he wasn’t behind the counter; either way, I ordered and I sat, waiting for my latte because, by this point, I was so regular the staff brought it over to me. Which is incredibly awkward, by the way, because I feel like a stray cat that’s been made a mascot for some goddamn reason—another thing I’m clueless of. But I get these cooing looks from the girls and I’m not sure if that or the six foot _whatever_ tall, mass of hot guy that scare me more.

So, I’m sitting there and then this hand—his hand—puts down the cup and I couldn’t even look up because I was secure in the knowledge that I’d tried and that he wasn’t there and I could get on with my life, convincing myself that this was all in my head. The coffee isn’t even that great anyway, there are plenty of other coffee shops.

But his hand was there, attached to my latte, which meant the rest of him was there too. When I opened my mouth to say something the only noise I made was a squawk (think a distressed parrot) that I assume was supposed to be _thanks,_ but the jury is still out on that one. And he just laughed; he has this low laugh that numbs my brain and makes me all too aware of my own body.

I was OK with the fact that I wasn’t gonna look at him, I threw that idea right out of the fucking window as soon as it popped into my mind. Instead my eyes were glued to the cup and he simply said “No problem”, so I suppose he understands whatever new language I speak. That’s a miracle on its own. The second miracle came in the form of a note scrawled on the cup. I wanted to turn it and read what it says but I couldn’t where he can see, because what if it was a _Sorry, I’m not into you_? So, I made my usual clumsily hasty exit with the cup in my hand, and by sheer luck I didn’t piss anyone off by barging past them on my way to the door.

I’d sat on the bench for the best part of half an hour, rereading the message. By which point my money was as good as poured down the drain because my latte was cold, but I’d already spent enough to cover a small mortgage in there anyway when I wasn’t necessarily thirsty, so what harm is one wasted drink? But I could give less of a fuck about that; I kept looking at the words scrawled messily onto the cardboard wondering if I was reading wrong, or maybe it was a different code that means _This was all a joke_ but it looked like his number. And above the digits it said: Even. I already knew his name because he wears a name badge but you don’t just call someone by their name because it’s on their name badge, do you? That’s just fucking weird.

_Even_. And now I can say his name ‘cos he’s given it to me.

But what do I write? _Hi, sorry for messing up your chair arrangements every time I leave?_ or, _Hi, do you like me then?_ Taking out my phone, I’d decided that then was as good a time as any to bite the bullet and just send a text. What’s the worst that could happen? Except perhaps lose any dignity that I still had spare in my pocket.

It took a while to decide what to say; I kept typing and deleting until I decided on the perfect message:

_Hi_.

I put the number in and pressed send and it was only _then_ that I realised he wouldn’t know who it’s from. So I add another message:

_It’s Isak._

Send… and fuck, he didn’t know my name, so I had to send a third fucking message:

_The guy you just gave your number to._

Thrusting my phone into my pocket, I cursed myself for several minutes, imagining him laughing at how desperate I must be to send three messages in one go— _literally_ the minute I have his number.

And then I was worrying about the fact that I should have waited—Jonas would have told me to wait—and I emptied the cup out on the grass and stowed it away in my bag. Because apparently I’d become a inane loser who keeps cups that strangers write notes on, but this one should be with the other that’s in my wardrobe. I thought that once he blew me off for being said inane loser, I’d at least have something to remind me of this epic cluster-fuck.

But as I strode away, my phone made that noise to let me know I have a message; the tone must have changed because my stomach had never flipped like that when I’d heard it before. I couldn’t look— it was probably my mum, or Eskild asking me to get milk—so it stayed in my pocket until I got home and I’d made a matching pair out of the slightly soggy cardboard cups in their secret hiding place.

I flopped on to the bed and took a deep breath before I got enough courage to face being disappointed. Sliding open the message, it took me a while to absorb the fact I wasn’t being blown off.

_It’s nice to know your name finally. Can I take you out sometimes?_

Just like that? He was asking me out—just like that? Shouldn’t there be some textual foreplay before that subject is broached? He’s kinda forward... and I couldn’t make up my mind if I like that or not. All I knew was I felt alarmed but excited and there was way too much energy flowing through me to be trusted to make any decisions, like texting back for example. But I ignored that warning from the far reaches of my panicky brain anyway. The hot guy was asking _me_ out.

_When?_

_Friday?_

_OK._

Fuck. I’d just agreed to a date.

_… Is there any time in particular you want me to pick you up or should I surprise you?_

Pick me up? Does he drive? I knew way too little about him. But it was kinda sweet, I decided, so I suggested 7pm and gave him my address. And that was it.

That was on Monday. I’d picked up my phone too many times to count, wanting to send a message but not knowing what to say. I hardly know him—I reminded myself, again and again. And the thought to cancel the date had occurred more than once. But, I figured, after all the nerves and blunders already, I’d be chucking in the towel if I didn’t go. The likelihood of him finding out I wasn’t anywhere near as interesting as he thought is pretty damn high; and that would be that. But my mind would wonder: what if he didn’t? What if he liked me? And what if I liked him back the same? And then I would snuff out those thoughts because there was no point in building it up.

Thursday came around and I woke up feeling worse than shit. Despite having stayed clear of Eskild during his outbreak of flu, it seemed I hadn’t been careful enough. _Or_ Eskild had extra potent germs that needed everyone to suffer alongside him; I chose to believe the latter. I stayed in denial until this morning, hoping by some divine intervention that it would be a twenty four hour bug, despite it taking my housemate out for a full week. But it just so happened that, not only was I running hot, I also couldn’t move. It’s Friday, the day of my date with Even, and I can’t go.

Picking up my phone, I squint at the screen long enough to type out a simple message:

_I’m ill, I can’t make tonight. I’m sorry._

And I’m more than sorry. The whole day was spent tossing and turning wrapped in my duvet, too cold and then too warm. I tried to sleep but I was hanging onto consciousness in case he’d text back. But there was nothing. And, as the hours dwindled by, my thoughts spiralled from slight disappointment in myself to full blown self-inflicted bullying.

I’ve fucked it up. Completely fucked it. Either he thinks I’m a coward or I’m not serious. When would I get the chance like that again? But maybe it was better like this, if it was just a silly fantasy it couldn’t be ruined by reality which was—more often than not—shit anyway. If it all stays hypothetical and in my head, then it can be the perfect opportunity that I missed rather than becoming a terrible truth. I’ve actually saved myself time and bullshit, more likely than not; life’s too short to go around disappointing people. I would just have to find another spot to get coffee, I did _actually_ like the coffee there.

Having completely beaten myself into submission for pretty much every single life choice I’ve ever made, I lay staring at my empty glass wondering if there’d be any chance that Eskild would get me some more water. Because I can’t move and I need to be hydrated before I desiccate completely and there is nothing more pathetic than being helpless and wishing you were at home so your mum could look after you.

I’m just about to text him and bargain my soul away even for just some lukewarm tap water, when I hear the door buzzer sound. Groaning, I wrap the covers tight around myself. It would be just like him to decide to throw a party because _he_ was feeling better, never mind the fact I’m lying here close to death’s door. So not only am I ill as fuck, I’m gonna have a headache because Britney is gonna be played loud enough to make the walls shake. Great—just fucking great. And I could be out on a date. This is all Eskild’s fault, I decide, realising I’m not completely OK with having missed going out with Even.

Voices drone on somewhere else in the flat, but surprisingly there's no music yet. Still, whoever it is, they are talking loud enough that I can hear them laughing. It must be nice to be happy. So, the pillow comes over my head; maybe I'm grumpy and oversensitive or maybe everyone is an asshole, who knows?

I frown into the darkness beneath my covers because—all of a sudden—it's quiet except for footsteps approaching my room. What does Eskild want? Or maybe it was _whoever-it-was_ looking for the bathroom. Knuckles against the wood of my closed door declare that it's the visitor. Eskild wouldn't knock, not when I’m ill anyway. Evidently they've gotten lost on the way to the bathroom. What an idiot.

“Go away.” I shout as loud as I can through the blankets and pillow that muffle my voice. There's a pause before another knock sounds. Who the fuck is this?

Flinging the covers from my face, I shout louder—although it's not really necessarily. “ _Fuck off_!” That was perhaps slightly excessive.

There's a laugh that comes from the other side of the door but I can't really make it out, it sounds familiar. “I can leave the things in the kitchen, I just wanted to check on you.”

And a new symptom of my illness explodes just like that: nausea.

_It's Even?_ What the fuck is he doing here? I sit up, scrubbing my hands through my hair in vain; I'm sweaty and gross and this isn't supposed to happen like this. Why would he come when I'm ill? He wanted to check on me? What the fuck do I do?

Failing to make my hair anything other than a slightly less messy, damp tangle, I slide back down the mattress and pull the covers tight around me.

Again, I try to speak but it's a strangled noise that escapes (think a cat being drowned), and I can hear his renewed laugh. _Fuck_ , why can't I be mad at him?

“You can… come in.” It sounds more a question than a statement but my eyes begin to widen in panic as the door handle turns.

And there he is, his perfect face sticking through the gap—and there's another symptom: I can't breathe. Despite knowing I look like a ridiculous human burrito, I pull the covers further over my face. This isn’t fair.

“I was just going to drop this off, but Eskild said you'd want to see me.” Why does he say Eskild’s name like it’s familiar to him? He’s frowning now with obvious doubt at the information he'd been given, and there is that constant gleam of amusement in his eyes whenever I get the nerve to look at them—which I can right now because I have a few protective layers of material covering me.

I poke my head out a little further, but I don't really know what I'm supposed to say. I'm not prepared. “What did you bring?” _Awesome start, Isak_. Straight to the stuff he brought—no _thanks_ whatsoever. Why am I so bad at this?

But all he does is grin like I made some amazing quip. I'm literally lying in a pool of my own sweat and germs, being rude on top of that, and he's beaming at me like I'm a fucking delight.

“Can I come in?”

I mean, I can't say no—and the only reason I want to say that is because I'm a mess. He doesn't seem to care about that though. “OK.” But the nerves in my voice are obvious.

He hesitates, raising an eyebrow at me. “I don't bite.” And now I'm thinking about his mouth, which was really uncalled for because it's a really nice mouth and I think that I've probably spent some time—t _oo much time_ —before today thinking about his mouth.

And I open _my_ mouth to tell him I know that he doesn't bite but there's a pathetic mewl that escapes instead. I clear my throat to try and cover up the lack of control I have over my vocal chords but, by the way he drops his eyes, I can tell he knows where my mind has been.

“I know.” I say a little too hotly, flustered by how transparent I seem to be to him.

“Sure?”

I shouldn't have rolled my eyes but I did. What am I doing? And he's laughing again, I try to scowl but there's that numbness spreading through my brain. “I'm sure.”

And now he's in my room. Hot coffee shop guy— _Even_ —is in my bedroom, and if I thought I was sweaty before it's nothing compared to what I'm doing right now; my palms are wet no matter how many times I wipe them on my shirt. Maybe it's a new super power: never-ending sweat supply—what sort of useless power is that? Always optimum body temperature boy?

I realise that my brain is hurtling down several different tangents at once because he's sat at the end of my bed. He's on my fucking bed. And I'm panicking.

“So,” he begins, opening the bag. This is the most we've ever spoken before and his voice does _things._ “I made some soup. And I brought bottled water, hydration is important…” and I almost die, right here and now, because he just winked at me. This fucker is playing dirty. _He made soup?_ “...tissues and my laptop: movies.” he shrugs like that was expected, so he likes movies? “Oh, and vitamins.”

I didn't remember shifting to sit, but I'm now propped against the wall with the covers in my lap and I'm gaping at him like he's a mythical creature—which he probably is. Who would bring all this stuff for me? Obviously Even would, but why?

“Why?” I croak as he tosses me one of the bottles of water. I grab it eagerly, twisting open the lid and gulping it down. It may be the best thing I've ever tasted.

He considers me with an amused expression and I try not to sink back down in the bed, to melt into the obscurity of my mattress. He’s only looking at me, I can cope with this. “I’ve actually been here before; dropped off your housemate when he’d had a bit too much to drink one time. It was a while ago now.”

He’s been here before? “You know Eskild?”

He just shrugged. “I’ve met him once or twice—friends of friends. And I thought if you lived here, maybe you didn’t have anyone to look after you. So,” and he’s smiling now and I think my face is melting, my heart is definitely trying to beat its way out of my rib cage, “here I am.” And he’s so nonchalant, not the fake kind where you’re secretly preening at the praise that’s assumed, he genuinely thinks nothing more of his actions than: _here I am_.

I’m drinking from the bottle again because my mouth is suddenly intolerably dry, but it’s empty already. Before I have a chance to consider what I do next, another bottle lands in my lap.

“Looks like I was right.”

“Yeah, I’m not so bad though.” Who am I kidding? I haven’t moved all day except the daring runs to the toilet when my head spins so bad I'm catapulted from wall to wall. I guess I just don’t want to look feeble, which I more than feel. But the way he’s eyeing me says he doesn’t believe one word.

“Have you eaten anything?”

I shake my head, trying not to topple over with the dizziness that’s quick to descend. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Have you taken anything?”

And I frown trying to recall when the last time I took any medicine was. I don’t usually need to take anything. “Last night.” I took some painkillers to help me rest better, hoping it would all go away with a good night's sleep.

Now I’m wondering what’s happening to me, with anyone else I’d become defensive. But the concerned look on his face just makes me feel guilty for not taking better care of myself. I’m on the verge of apologising for a reason I can’t fathom when he stands up from the bed. Is he going? Part of me is relieved that I was right and I figured out as soon as possible that he finds no interest in me; but most of me is desperate for him to stay because I’m not just a rude, awkward jerk. Honestly, I'm not.

“I’ll be back.” He says like he can read my mind, before slipping out of the room.

I’m left staring at the open door. Am I dreaming? Maybe I’m so ill it’s a hallucination. But I kick my foot out from under the sheets and it hits the bag he brought. I can feel the warmth of the container that I guess is holding the soup. What kinda soup is it? I mean, I _wasn’t_ hungry before but now that I know there is food in the room, my stomach rumbles. Maybe I could look while he's gone? And just as I decide to move to grab at the bag, he comes striding through the door. Instinctively, I pretend I'm smoothing out the sheets but his smirk says I've not been convincing in my subterfuge.

But I'm not bothered about being seen through again, he's got a towel over one shoulder and a bowl of water; I’m instantly distracted. What is he going to do? Panic pushes my back flat against the wall as he approaches, placing the bowl on the side he sits next to me. We've never been this close before.

“What are you gonna do?” I'm watching him wide eyed and he knows it because he can't stop grinning.

“I told you I don't bite.” he says, throwing a glance at me before he reaches for the bag and pulls the container out. “You need to eat before you can take those tablets.” He nods to the side where a packet of ibuprofen has been deposited. “And it's chicken soup.” he adds.

“You know you don't have to do all this-”

“Of course I know that. I wanted to take a chance.”

And I just stare at him. What does he mean? “Take a chance on what?”

The lid is off the container now and he has a spoon. Where did the spoon come from? But the thought quickly vanishes from my mind when he answers. “That the cute guy that comes to my shop didn't just blow me off.”

And I've walked right into his trap because I'm left slack jawed just as he comes at me, spooning soup straight into my mouth.

_He just fed me?_

I'm caught between being shocked at him: the words and actions, and the fact someone is spoon feeding me delicious fucking soup—not someone, Even. He was worried that I'd blow him off? And I have to contradict myself, _this_ is the best thing I've ever tasted.

“Good.” he says, smiling at me while I swallow.

“Cute?” I splutter as soon as I'm able to. What the hell is wrong with me? Why is that the first thing I address? But I thought he thought I was pretty?

“Well, I think so.” he says, like it's nothing while another spoon is moving towards my face. I've already half knowingly accepted once already, I can't really say no now, can I? That would be rude. So I accept because it's the polite thing to do and nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that actually I kinda like this. “So I thought I'd risk coming over, even though you might think I'm some desperate loser.” He seems to speak like he's a second from laughing.

Hold on, he thought I'd think _he_ was the desperate loser? “You're not a loser.” I say defensively, which is weird because I'm defending him from his own words.

“Just desperate?” he smirks.

“ _No—”_ and I'm cut off as more soup is suddenly hurtling towards my mouth, but I'm eating whatever is offered eagerly and he seems pleased with that. And the fact that he's pleased with me makes a warmth unfurl in my chest. What is that? “Anyway,” I continue, “there's nothing wrong with desperate. Especially if the other person is just as desperate.” Did I just say we're _both_ desperate? What the fuck am I doing?

But he's still looking at me like I'm actually good company, that he enjoys whatever mess is coming from my mouth. And I still can't quite believe what's happening right now.

The soup is placed on the side and I think I'm pouting because I want some more.

“You can have more in a bit, I just want you to drink and take these.” The tablets are popped into his hand before he offers them to me with the water. I swallow them down quickly, but I'm already feeling better. The food was a good idea, my head seems steadier and I feel less panicky—maybe I'm getting used to him being here. Don't get me wrong, I wanted him in my bedroom at some point, I just didn't imagine it would be so soon and like _this._ The only thing that's uncomfortable for me now is the half damp shirt that's stuck to my skin.

And just like that, he takes the towel; dipping one end in the water, it's wrung out before he turns back to me. Before I can register what he's doing, the cool material is pressed to my forehead for a moment and then he dabs at my temples. I can’t help but sigh in blissful relief, it feels _so_ good.

“I figured it was too soon to offer you a sponge bath.” he snickers, the towel is being dipped into the water again and then he’s wringing it out. He has large hands. It’s a random observation but I pull up short before it can drift somewhere that might be uncomfortable right now. And then his words hit me; a sponge bath? So, his hands would be all over me and I’d be naked— _stop, Isak_. I think I just stuttered when I tried to breathe… but is it _really_ too soon?

“Probably.” I mumble through the towel as my face is being wiped down again. But I can hear him laughing softly. Can he read my mind?

“You want to know one of the things I like about you?”

“What’s that?” I more or less hum the words as the cloth is wiping down my neck. One of the things? There’s more than one thing he likes about me?

“You have an honest face.”

I have a what? “What do you mean?”

And he shrugs, I can see him thinking about what words he's going to use as he chews on his lower lip… and I'm staring at his mouth—again. I cough and look away, trying to distract myself with something benign in my room. Like the blank TV screen. I feel like I just proved his point…

“You have whole conversations using your face alone; it’s very expressive—I like it.”

And now I'm looking into his eyes and I can't break my gaze. People have told me I'm grumpy or rude by my mannerisms, no one has ever said they could read whole conversations from them. _He likes my face?_

“I like your face too.” And I didn't know I spoke aloud until I realise it was my voice in my ears. What am I saying? “I mean it's a good face—you have a _nice_ face.” I don't know if I made things better or worse but I get the distinctive feeling I have a metaphoric shovel in my hands and I'm standing in a hole.

“I'm glad.” he replies, like my stumbled admissions are no big deal—no, not no big deal, but something that makes his lips curve into a soft smile of pleasure. He's genuinely appreciative of my words. But he must know he's good looking, and I'm about to tell him exactly that when he reaches towards me, his fingers pluck at my shirt where it lays over my navel.

“You wanna change this? It's probably uncomfortable.” I'm staring at where he pulled at my t-shirt because he was almost touching my body. I can't feel my tongue. “I'm not trying to get you naked.” he laughs the words but I can hear a note of worry, like I would think that—after all the gestures he’s shown in the last twenty minutes—he’s simply paving the way to get my clothes off.

“I know.” I say, my tone is insistent so he _knows_ that that was not on my mind. My fingers pull at the hem of my shirt and it's over my head quickly. I'm about to throw it to the floor, but he takes it from me and stands, making his way to the wash basket to drop it inside.

“Where are your shirts?” He surveys my room before his gaze drop to me, I'm still gawking at him because it's still unbelievable that he's here.

“They're in the wardrobe.” I say, looking at my hands in my laps and wondering what I should do with myself. I can hear him open the doors and then there's a pause before they're closed again. My skin prickles as his footsteps return to the bed and I think it's because I can _feel_ him grinning. And I find that I'm right when my eyes settle on him as he sits close. What did I do that made him grin?

Before I can ask, he beckons me to sit forward, so I do. And the towel returns, all I can do is watch as his careful hands wipe down my clammy chest, stomach and arms. I don't think I'm breathing, but that soon changes when I gasp as he pulls me against his body and the towel works down my back.

My brain just short circuited because his body is against mine; there's only his shirt between us and I can feel his heartbeat; I can smell him; I can feel his hair brush against my cheek. Then something weird happens, I let out a deep sigh and I relax into him. Closing my eyes I start to enjoy the way he carefully traces my muscles, making sure every inch he can decently reach has been refreshed.

“Let me get your shirt on—you're shivering.” And I realise he's right but I don't think it's due to a chill. I bite my tongue anyway: firstly, because—for once—my brain is stopping me from saying something that perhaps should wait until another time, and, secondly, I'm being lulled into a warm and safe cocoon that I don’t want to disturb.

But I don’t want to move, so I stay where I am, wrapping my arms around him as if I have the right to do that. Why does this feel so natural? He doesn’t complain though, his gentle laugh stirs the hair at the nape of my neck. And I'm shivering again, I think he knows why now. His arms are holding me just as tight and his nose brushes against my neck as he speaks low.

“Or I can keep you warm, if that's what you want?”

I think I made a _uh huh_ noise to answer but it's obvious that I have no plans to move from my current position—plastered to his chest—by the way my hold doesn't relent. I can't let go and I don't know why. It feels like life has been one tiresome journey and I can finally rest, right here. With Even.

“OK.” he murmurs, and somehow he manages to shift around so he’s reclining on my mountain of pillows without prying me from his body. So I get to keep my position but now I'm sprawled over his chest. The covers are brought up over my back and tenderly tucked around my body. But I think he's all the heat I need.

“Is that OK?” he asks. I try to say something but, with the warmth and the food and _him_ , I just hum again. This time it vibrates in my chest. Did I just purr? “Are you purring, Isak?” he laughs, while his fingers are stroking through my hair.

I shrug, I don't really care about being ridiculous in front of him now. It feels like he understands me and that whatever strange or silly things I do, he likes it. The important thing is he just said my name. That's the first time he's done that and I don't mince my thoughts when I decide I love the way he says it. It sounds completely different from his mouth.

“Maybe, _Even_.” And I hope it sounds different to him too—unique.

There's a pause and it only takes a moment for fears to erupt in my head. Maybe he hates how I say his name? Just as quickly as the anguish ignites, its extinguished when I feel his lips press against my forehead. They’re only there briefly and, as he leans back again, I peer up at him to find him smiling down at me.

“What was that for?” I ask, dumbfounded by how big and blue his eyes are. Is his hair always so perfect?

He simply shrugs. “It's how my mum used to take my temperature.”

And I’m frowning at him. Is that a thing? Can he tell just from that? “What?”

“Yeah, it’s like a hereditary super power.” And he says it so earnestly my common sense fails me.

_“Really?”_

“No,” he snorts, “I just like the way you say my name.”

It's the ache in my cheeks that lets me know I'm grinning. “Good.”

“ _Awww,_ and your smile is adorable too.”

The way he’s beaming at me should bother me; if it was anyone else cooing over my smile being adorable then I would find my ire easily. Instead, I just feel heat in my cheeks… _adorable?_

“And I like it when you get embarrassed like that, your neck and cheeks flush. It’s cute.”

If he tell me one more thing that he likes about me I think I will lose the ability to talk indefinitely. _Cute?_ “I thought you said I was pretty?” I could roll my eyes at the words I use, as if I need him to reassure that he does in fact find me pretty as well as cute and adorable. When did I want to be any of those things? I’m an ungrateful asshole, that’s for sure.

But he just tilts his head, his smile deepens and his fingers are still running through my hair. “Pretty, cute, adorable, hot…shall I go on?” he tapers off in that soft laugh and it sends goose-bumps skittering over my flesh. And I'm hot too? That was the final compliment that leaves me tongue tied.

Closing my eyes, I try to hide my face in his clothes because I can't quit grinning and my face is a furnace. I want to thank him for the compliments, no one's said all those things about me before but my brain is not connecting with my mouth. He's going to think I'm an idiot.

“What's your favourite colour?” he asks softly, breaking through the worries that my mind needlessly constructs.

I look at him, trying to figure out where this tangent is going. “Yellow. What's yours?”

“Purple.”

And the first thing that comes to mind is something learnt in Art, I don't even know how long ago now. “You know, they're complimentary colours.”

He considers my words a moment before nodding. “I think you're right.”

“I _know_ I'm right.” I smirk at him as he laughs. I think I love his laugh.

“Such a smart ass.”

“You'll have to get used to that bit.” Isn't that presumptuous—getting used to me?

But his thumb is stroking over my cheek fondly, he doesn't think it's a presumption. “Oh, I will.”

“You say that now.” My words are lost in a yawn and he tsks me.

“Being smart takes up so much energy, huh?” And I'd answer with another smart comment if a second yawn wasn't forcing its way from my jaws. His eyebrows quirk like I just proved his point. “Rest your eyes, I'll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” I manage to say, my eyes are closed now like his words were a command. But I'm warm and he's holding me, his fingers acquainting themselves with every hair on my head and I want to surrender to this bliss. I want to sleep in his arms.

He hums confirmation. “If you want me, I'm free all weekend. I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

“I want you here.” I murmur sleepily. And I don't say indefinitely but that's what I mean.

“Good.”

I get the impression that words are lingering in his mouth, that he's considering holding back but I'm too tired to fight for them. But just as my mind begins to wander into the random tangents of pre sleep pondering, he leans in to press another kiss on my head.

“I kept my cup too.” he whispers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alt Er Love <3


End file.
